


It Sucks, To Be On The Losing Side Of The Memory Game

by Astarloa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alzheimer's Disease, Angst, Drama, Gen, Season 2, Sick Dean Winchester, implied major character death, terminal illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 04:49:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astarloa/pseuds/Astarloa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's six months since John died, and Sam's struggling to come to terms with his growing abilities. Dean has his own problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dean-focused hurt/comfort comment meme [6] at Hoodie_time.

“Earth to Brainiac. Where’re the keys?”

Sam looks up from his laptop. He’s sure Dean’s been using it to download porn again, that it’s been infected with a virus or something. Knowing his brother and computers, the “or something” seems more likely. 

“Keys?” he asks, blankly.

“The car keys,” Dean says, fingers tapping restlessly against his leg. “We’re out of beer, we’re out of money and last I looked neither were waiting with the shoes for collection.”

Sam blinks.

Sometimes his brother is just plain _weird._

“Um, yeah. Guess not. No idea about the keys,” he mumbles, attention already drifting back to the screen. “Besides, you had them last.”

“What? No, I didn’t.”

There’s a report of pets going missing in the next town over. The latest victim appears to be Twiggy-Sticks, a Pekinese owned by Miss Veronica Myles, age 83. 

Huh.

“Sam?”

Pet-knapping is kind of minor but still, it could be their sort of thing. Maybe there’s a witch in the area. If so, it doesn’t look good for Twiggy-Sticks.

“Sam!” Dean yells, slamming the laptop closed. “I swear to God, if you don’t give me the keys then the next bones I’m gonna be burning are yours.”

“Woah, okay there. First? You need to calm down,” Sam says, pushing his chair back a few inches to be on the safe side. 

He watches an ugly, red flush creep slowly up his brother’s neck; takes careful note of the pulse jumping against a jaw clenched so tight he half expects it to shatter into jagged, little pieces. 

It’s not like Dean to lose his temper for no reason, and yet lately? It also kind of is. Sam tells himself the mood swings are just another result of John’s death, all the emotions his brother tries to lock away seeping out between the cracks. He almost believes it.

“Second, you had the keys last. Cross-my-heart and hope to…not become a fratricide statistic,” Sam continues, with a tentative smile. 

It flickers and dies when Dean only glares, hands unconsciously curling into fists. 

“Seriously, man. I checked us in while you drove the car ‘round to the parking lot, remember? You were already unloading the trunk when I showed up, so whatever’s happened to them since then is…” 

Sam’s voice trails away as Dean sort of _freezes,_ blank eyes fixed somewhere over his left shoulder. Sam has the strange thought that Dean’s not there at all; that he’s disappeared along with the keys and been replaced by a wax doll, something empty and lost.

“Hey look, it’s okay. They’ve got to be here somewhere, right?” Sam babbles nervously, pushing to his feet. He fumbles through the mess of paper and empty food containers littering the table, anything to fill the silence. “We’ve just got to work out where you had them last. They can’t have vanished.”

“Whatever. I’m going out,” Dean says flatly, still avoiding eye contact and grabbing his jacket from the end of the nearest bed. “There’s no beer left and the last of the credit cards is running low.”

“Um, yeah, I know. You already said that. But what about…” two quick strides and Dean’s gone, motel door banging closed behind him, “…the car keys? ”


	2. Chapter 2

“Aw, c’mon, seriously?” Dean shouts, as icy spray from a passing car hits his face. He wipes it off with the sleeve of his jacket.

Could this day get any worse? 

He drops down onto the curb beside the road, suddenly tired. It’s not like he was going anywhere in particular. At least, he doesn’t think so. Guilt washes over him, cold and stinging against his skin. Fuck. Sam’s got enough going on without Dean throwing a tantrum, like a three-year-old kid. 

It’s just that sometimes he can’t help it. 

He pulls out his lighter, together with a crumpled, half-empty pack of cigarettes. Sam would have a fit if he knew. Probably launch straight into a public service announcement about the demon nicotine, complete with diagrams and pie charts. He pulls one out and tries to ignore the fine tremor that runs through his fingers; that it takes him three tries before the lighter catches.

He draws in a lungful of smoke and exhales slowly, watches it eddy and swirl in the glow of orange headlights. It’ll be dark soon. There’s a pleasant burn in the back of his throat, and he draws in another mouthful eagerly; wipes stray ash from the knee of his jeans.

When his fingertips start to burn he lights another cigarette from the end of the first.

He remembers Pastor Jim once told him that chain smoking’s a sin, but doesn’t know if he ate pancakes or cereal for breakfast. It’s as though his brain’s being smothered in layers of damp cottonwool. So far he hasn’t forgotten anything important: Sam or Dad. But too many nights he lies awake, scared to sleep in case they slip away, too.

Taking a last drag, he flicks the butt onto the ground and pulls out his cell. Hits speed-dial.

“This better be important. I got an engine leaking God knows what and a hysterical soccer mom roaming the yard. She’s scarin’ the dogs.”

“Hey Bobby, it’s Dean.”

Bobby snorts. “And here I was thinkin’ Santa Claus had this number.”

“Yeah, sorry to disappoint. I know you’ve got a thing for those lady elves,” Dean says, mouth twitching into a smile.

“You call for a reason or should I be hanging up now?” Bobby asks.

“No, um. You know of anything that could cause memory loss? Like, a monster or spell or something?” Dean looks down, concentrates on scuffing his boot back and forth through the dirty slush.

“Anything’s kind of a big topic, Dean. You gonna be more specific? What kind of memory loss we talkin’ about here, exactly?”

“Ah, just…little stuff, I guess,” Dean says, clearing his throat. “People forgetting where they put the keys or blanking out on names, things like that. Stuff they don’t remember doing. But it keeps getting worse and I’m…they have these mood swings. Like, they’re angry all of a sudden or yelling without knowing why.”

He rubs a hand over his mouth, head filled with silent prayers.

_Please don’t say it, please don’t say it, please don’t say it._

“And how long is it since _they_ first noticed this happenin’?” Bobby finally asks, voice gruff.

“Three or four months. Maybe six.”

“Right. These people seen a doctor at all?”

“No. I mean, not that I know of.”

“Okay,” Bobby sighs, resigned. “Let me do some diggin’.” 

“Thanks Bobby,” Dean says, something tight loosening inside his chest. For the first time in weeks he feels able to take a proper breath. “I…thanks.”

“Don’t go thanking me just yet. Anythin’ out of the ordinary happen to these folk lately I should know about?”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Define ordinary. Honestly? Nothing that sticks out.”

“What about that brother of yours - he got any thoughts on this’?” Bobby asks, cautiously. “‘Cause the kid’s pretty good when it comes to research. Could save a lot of time if I knew what it aint, so to speak.”

“Nah, Sam’s busy looking into disappearing Peking ducks or something. And Bobby? He doesn’t need to know we spoke, okay?”

“Dean…”

“Bobby.”

There’s a loud huff on the other end of line, the vibrations somehow warm and familiar against his ear. 

“Damn fool idjit.”


	3. Chapter 3

It turns out a troll’s responsible for the spate of pet disappearances. Alliance, Ohio seems an odd place to find a creature from Scandinavian mythology but still, stranger things have happened. Sam’s best guess is that it’s living down near the abandoned rail tracks and stealing into the city at night to feed. 

“It says here that trolls are allergic to sunlight and hate the sound of church bells. And uh, that they look hideous. If it’s moving around the city without anyone noticing it could some kind of rå or näck. But they’re usually connected with water or a specific landform, which doesn’t really fit.”

He stands up from the table and stretches, fingertips not far from the ceiling of their crappy motel room. He’s starting to wonder why this seemed like such a good idea. It’s not bringing them any closer to the yellow-eyed demon or the source of his visions. 

Dean shrugs, flicking through their Dad’s journal. “Okay, then I guess we hit a church tonight and go gank ourselves a troll in the morning. Let’s hope it’s not raining.”

“What, we’re stealing from churches now? And there’s no way church bells are going to fit inside the car.” 

“Hey, the Lord giveth to those who help themselves,” Dean grins, unrepentant.

Sam rolls his eyes. “I don’t think that’s quite what God had in mind.”

If nothing else, at least it’s got Dean smiling again. He’s seemed calmer and more focused over the last few days too, as though the familiarity of a hunt's given him something to hold on to. Still, Sam can’t shake the feeling that something’s not right.

There’s the smoking, for one thing.

‘Cause yeah, there’s no way he hasn’t noticed. It’s kind of funny to watch Dean sneak off at night, only to return minutes later with the smell of cigarettes clinging to his clothes and hair. He hasn’t missed the way his brother’s words sometimes slur together, either. 

“Hey, we should give Dad a call. See if he’s come across one of these things before,” Dean says, suddenly. His eyes are wide and hopeful, freckles standing out despite the dim light. 

Sam gapes, the floor quivering under his feet.

A distant part of him wonders about earthquakes and the end of the world. Of the sun imploding in a storm of black light, swallowing them whole as bullets fly. The smell of cigarette smoke is suddenly heavy on back of his tongue, and he swallows hard. 

There’s not enough air.

“What?” Dean gives his brother a strange look. “Seriously, you need to get past this stuff with Dad. No matter what you think about the man’s parenting skills, even you gotta admit he’s an awesome hunter.”

He turns back to the journal, eyes moving restlessly over one page before turning to the next. 

“And I know you don’t want to think about it - hell, neither do I - but there’re no guarant…guarant-things, _promises_ with this job. Just saying, if you leave it too late to fix things you’ll regret…”

Sam watches his fist swing towards Dean. There’s a dull thud of collision, the impact travelling up his arm and through his shoulder. It should hurt, but somehow doesn’t. Or maybe it’s just that everything hurts so much he can’t feel it anymore. 

Dean’s head flies back, shock and blood streaking across his face. 

The wooden chair crashes to the ground, and his brother with it, nothing graceful in the ugly tangle of limbs. Pages filled with black ink break free from their binding, the distorted face of a ghoul leering up from the floor. 

“You know I wish things had been different with Dad. You know that!” Sam pants, squeezing his eyes shut. “What the hell is wrong with you? Dad’s dead, Dean! He’s been dead for months!”

“I…nothing. N-nothing’s wrong with me, I’m fine. I know Dad’s vacation. Gone. I know Dad’s _gone._ I kn-know that,” Dean stutters. “I’m fine. Or at least I was, before you fucking hit me. F-fucking cunt.”

A bitter laugh forces itself from Sam’s throat.

Fine’s an invisible dot on the horizon, for both of them. Any illusions Sam had on that score are snuffed out when he opens wet eyes and looks down. 

Dean’s sitting on the floor, back pressed against the cabinets. Blood drips unchecked from where Sam’s fist has split open the skin over his left eye, and he’s shaking. Just _shaking_.

Jesus.

“I’m f-fine,” Dean says defiantly, daring him to say otherwise.

Sam doesn’t.

Instead, he walks through the tiny kitchen and eases down onto the floor next to his brother. They sit quietly, side-by-side, and stare at the overturned chair. One of its legs has snapped off.

“We’ll have to explain that to the manager,” Sam says, breaking the silence. “Maybe we can blame the troll.”

“Sam?”

He knows what Dean’s asking, and that it’s not about the chair. _Tell me it’s okay. I’m frightened. Don’t be angry, I’m sorry. Say there’s nothing wrong with me. Say that I’m fine._

“I’m not angry,” Sam says, finally. “And I’m sorry, too.”


	4. Chapter 4

They pull into a gas station around noon. 

Weeds are growing through cracked concrete, the edge of the lot crumbling away into dirt and junked cars. The sky stretches out above them, clouds slung low and heavy.

“You want anything?” Sam asks.

“Nah, I’m good.”

“You sure? You didn’t eat much at breakfast, and…”

“Sam,” Dean growls, hands tightening on the wheel. “For the last time, I’m fine.” 

He stares straight ahead, refuses to look over as the car door slams shut. A few seconds later Sam crosses in front of the windscreen and stalks off towards the small store. Strips of paint are peeling from a sign over the entrance, rust visible between the letters. 

It takes him several attempts to read words, to understand what they mean. 

“Thank You, Come Again.” 

_C is like a cake with a piece taken out, C says “kuh”._

Dean leans against the window, its surface cold and damp against his face. God-fucking-dammit. He wants a cigarette, aches for the taste of smooth, acrid smoke. The head-rushing spin of nicotine that reduces his world to the simple act of breathing.

He climbs out of the car with a sigh that’s closer to a groan. Turns up the collar of his jacket and throws a quick glance towards the store, all dirty glass and faded colour.

Sam’s still wandering around inside, probably looking for whatever rabbit food he can lay his Sasquatch-sized hands on. Given the look of the place he’ll be lucky to find a bag of stale potato chips. And no doubt spend the next six hours bitching about it, like it’s somehow Dean’s fault that there’s no celery on offer.

As far as he’s concerned, Sam can stay in there all day if he wants. Make nice with the old bat behind the till. Dean smirks. Maybe they’ll turn out to be soul mates. It’s been a while since Sam hooked up with anyone, and God knows his brother needs something to release the tension. 

In the month since they left Ohio Sam’s had two settings: nagging and cranky silence, interspersed with worried glances when he thinks Dean won’t notice. His last offer to drive and let Dean get some “rest” had nearly resulted in a trip to the E.R. For the last hour it’s been all he can do not to push Sam out of the moving car and keep driving.

At least his brother hasn’t had any more of those – the word slips through his fingers. The bad, headache things that leave Sam retching in pain. Demon, blood, nursery, fire, Dad, promise, prem-premonit… _visions._ Dean repeats the word under his breath, determined to fix it in place; tries to ignore the rushing sound in his ears. Visions. 

It’s fine. Everyone suffers from occasional brain-freeze, right?

He’s fine.

And he really wants that cigarette. Like, ten minutes ago. 

He pulls opens the trunk and rummages through his duffle, movements growing more hurried as the cigarettes fail to materialise. _Please, please, please let them be here._ There’s a sigh of relief when his fingers scrape over the familiar texture of wrinkled cellophane and cardboard. He shakes a cigarette free and jams the filter between his lips, shoving the rest into the back pocket of his jeans.

Hands pat down the front of his jacket in search of a lighter.

“Sonofabitch…” Dean grunts, as a stinging blow cracks across his shins. The unlit cigarette falls from his mouth. He watches, sadly, as it rolls away under the Impala.

He turns around to find a man standing a few feet off, wielding a mangy broom. The man’s got to be about ninety and is bent almost double, stained overalls fastened by one strap. Grey fuzz clings to a wrinkled scalp. In a beauty competition, Dean thinks, the broom would come out on top.

“Dude, did you just hit me with a broom?” 

“An’ I’ll do it again. Don’ you go think’n I won’t,” snarls the man, every tooth in his mouth on display. Of the remaining six some don’t look too secure. He gives the broom another experimental jab, this time towards Dean’s stomach. 

“Woah!” Dean retreats to the other side of the car, limping slightly.

“You try’n to blow us all up, boy? Can’ you read the damn sign?” 

“What?”

The man jerks his head towards a large, red and white sign above the pump. “The sign, dummy.” 

Danger. No Smoking.

Dean feels his face start to burn. He knows that, he just…forgot. 

“I can read just fine,” he growls, familiar anger crawling under his skin. “You know what? Fuck this. You can take your stupid vegetables and shove them up your ass.”

He heads across the lot, towards the road. The old man’s screeching something in the distance, but he doesn’t stop or turn around. 

Just keeps walking.


	5. Chapter 5

The Impala pulls to a stop beside an empty cornfield. Parked at an angle, facing towards a ditch, as if left there by a child grown bored and tired of playing. A bottle of water and two bruised apples sit forgotten on the passenger seat, inside a plastic bag.

When Sam turns off the engine his breath sounds too loud in the silence. 

He wipes away condensation from the inside of the windscreen. It’s cold and greasy under his fingers, like the sweat that’s rolling down one shoulder blade. He leans forward, body hunched over the wheel, and watches. There’s a man standing in the middle of the field, pacing back and forth. 

Now that Dean’s been found all he wants is to drive away again. 

Crows are perched on overhead power lines that disappear into the horizon, uneven stitches sewn through the sky with a blunt needle. They caw loudly when Sam shuts the car door, fingers lingering on the handle. 

He tries not to hear them. 

Or think of a barely legible entry in his father’s journal about Odin’s ravens, Huginn and Munnin. From the Old Norse: Thought and Memory. 

_“Huginn and Munnin fly each day over the spacious earth. I fear for Huginn that he may not come back, yet more anxious am I for Munnin.”_

Goosebumps prickle over the skin of his arms. 

The ditch is half-filled with stagnant, sour smelling water. Sam scrambles over it, feet slipping in the mud, and heads across the field, towards his brother. Rotten straw sticks to his sneakers and the bottom of his jeans. In summer this place will be beautiful, but all that’s left now are brown, broken stalks that scrape against his jacket, graveyard bones that he can’t salt and burn.

When something rustles in the undergrowth Sam takes an involuntary step back, startled. Tries to laugh at himself. It’s harder to keep moving than it should be, and he concentrates on the gun rubbing against the skin of his back, the muffled clink of keys in his pocket. 

Footsteps drag to a stop when he's still a few feet away.

Dean doesn’t look over, just continues to pace in fragmented circles, a lit cigarette held between two fingers. There’s a smear of dirt across one cheekbone and his jeans are soaked up to the knees. 

Neither speak, meaning unravelling in the space between them, floating away like wisps smoke.

Sam opens his mouth only to close it again when words fail to materialise as more than a croak. He coughs into a fist and tries again, anything to break the silence. Relief has bled out amongst the mud, leaving behind only anger and fear. Anger’s always been easiest. 

“Dean? What the hell are you doing?”

“Hey, Sammy.” Dean sounds surprised, as though he’s only just noticed Sam’s there. “I’m smoking. You want one?” He stops moving and holds out a crushed packet of cigarettes. “Smoking’s great.”

“Um, no. Thanks. I’m good,” Sam says, tightly. 

“Your loss. I’m telling you, cigarettes are great,” Dean murmurs, blowing out a cloud of smoke that smells musty and sharp. “Hey, you want one?”

“No, I really, really don’t. You’re in the middle of a field, Dean.”

“So?” 

“So, you’re in the middle of a field! How did you even get here? Some old guy at the gas station was waving a broom around, yelling about explosions and Armageddon. You didn’t answer your –“

“I can r-read just fine, you know,” Dean says, suddenly. 

“What?” Sam asks, bewildered. 

“I may not have gone to g-gone to some fancy coat but I’m not stupid.”

Sam can feel his face start to crumble. “Let’s just go back to the car, okay?”

“Oh, for – what, now you’re pissed? Gimme a break,” Dean snaps, flicking the end of his cigarette onto the ground and immediately lighting another. “Is this about the s-smoking?”

“No! I don’t -” 

“What then? I got bored and went for a walk. You want to put a bell around my n-neck so I don’t get lost? Or I know, why don’t you just lock me under the bed with the broom, let me out at meal times. That’s what they do with c-crazy people, right?”

“You’re not crazy.” Sam cringes at the uncertainty in his own voice. “I don’t think that, Dean. I don’t. But man, something’s wrong. And you can look at me that way all you want, but you can't keep telling me you're fine.”

“I _am_ fine.”

“You’re not!” Sam yells, throwing his arms in the air. “People who’re fine don’t put their keys away in the sink. They don’t wander off in the middle of the day or forget that their father’s dead!”

“I already told you, that was –”

“When you went on this little walk of yours?” Sam continues, two fingers wiggling around in the air, “You left the car unlocked and the trunk open.”

“I w-wouldn’t do that.” 

“Yeah, well, you kind of did. I think Broom Man was too busy swatting at the pump to notice the weapons, but if he did, chances are he’ll call the police. We need to leave, Dean.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Dean repeats, but when his eyes meet Sam’s they’re full of an awful, blank confusion. “You want a cigarette, Sammy?”

“No,” Sam says, voice cracking. “Okay, look. Maybe we – maybe we can ask Bobby to check things out? See if there’s something supernatural going on with you.” 

“No.”

“Dean –”

“Just leave it alone, Sam.” 

“Why can’t we ask Bobby? Why not?” 

“’Cause I already d-did and he couldn’t find anything, okay?” Dean growls. Then more softly, “He couldn’t find anything.” 

Sam draws in a shaky breath and looks away, hope falling to the ground with a squelchy thud. He’s spent too many nights staring at the screen with bloodshot eyes, clicking on links, one after the other, like a fucked up game of snakes and ladders. He’s avoided the medical sites that the search engine spits out for “memory loss”. Forced his eyes to skip over words that leave him feeling more scared and alone than he has since boarding a bus to Palo Alto. 

When he couldn’t find a supernatural cause or solution, not one that fit, at least there’d still been Bobby. The pretence of a bearded, fairy godmother waving a flannel wand. Now that possibility’s gone, too. He should be angry, that Dean spoke to Bobby and didn't tell him. Yet all he feels is a soul-crushing ache.

“Then you’re going to see a doctor,” Sam says, finally.

“No.” Dean shakes his head, trying to draw in a lungful of smoke only to find that the cigarette’s gone out. “I’m fine. I’m f-fine.” 

“I’m not going to argue with you about this. It’s not up for discussion. You’re going, even if I have to drag you there unconscious. And don’t think that I won’t.” 

When there’s no response, Sam says the only thing left he can think of, the one thing that’s true. “Please. I need you to do this for me, Dean. Please? ”

Dean stares, before giving a hesitant nod. He looks tired.

Sam breathes out a sigh, and grabs the sleeve of his brother’s jacket, tugging on it gently. “Okay, that’s good. That’s good, man. Let’s go back to the car and get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

Dean turns, without a word, and starts walking back towards the Impala. Sam follows a few steps behind, eyes fixed on his brother’s back in case Dean disappears again when he’s not looking.

“You want a cigarette, Sam?” Dean calls, over his shoulder.

“No. They’re disgusting – I’ll leave the yellow teeth and wrinkles to you. And the Wendigo.”

“Bitch.”

Sudden tears flood Sam’s eyes. He swallows a sob and says, “Jerk.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shout out to Justmep, for prompting me to pick this story up again.

The doctor’s appointment doesn’t quite happen.

Something comes up, the way things always do, meaning and events rearranged to create a new story. There’s a rumour of demonic activity near a small church outside of Shueyville, Iowa and well, that’s that, really. Sam won’t let it go, and Dean’s not about to argue. Tracking down things that go bump in the night is what they do, after all; it’s their own brand of normal.

The beginning of the end slides past them unnoticed, lost to the stretch of empty back roads and dead fields covered in frost. They don’t speak much. Dean’s foot presses heavy on the gas, fingers loose and easy around the wheel, while Sam stares fixedly out of the window, expression concealed by growing shadows. The needle on the dashboard twitches, creeping past ninety. 

Glancing at his brother, Dean wonders if forgetting is a biological safety switch, a mechanism that stops people from being crushed under the weight of despair. There’s something almost sweet about it, an overdose of vicodin coated in sugar that smooths away the jagged edges of memory.

Maybe it’s Dad and Sam who are defective. 

Oh, Dean fakes it well enough, has had a lifetime of practice, but he’s never believed that answers are waiting to be found, or that much of anything will change if they are. Not really. Because that’s not how life works, is it? Especially not theirs. The knot of _maybe_ and _why_ and _what if_ won’t magically unravel if they find the demon that killed Mom, and…and…the other one. Smurfs. That girl Sam knew, the one who died.

He doesn’t remember her name. 

And if there’s a difference between ‘doesn’t’ and ‘can’t’ then Dean tries to ignore it. 

He keeps on trying until it’s too late and everything falls apart.

::::

_Two days later…_

Sirens have split the night open. 

A police officer stands by a scratched patrol car that’s seen better days, wary eyes tracking the scene. Half an hour ago she was doing paperwork and drinking burnt coffee, artificial sweetener added to mask the taste. She frowns, hand moving towards the gun on her hip before drifting away again. When her partner leans inside and flicks off the siren the sudden silence is shocking.

“Want me to call this one in to the Sherriff’s office?” he asks. 

She hesitates, and then shakes her head. “Let’s see what we’ve got first.”

Red and yellow lights continue to flash, mocking the broken remains of stained glass windows. They paint patterns of displaced violence in the snow and across a small group of people standing under the twisted, bare branches of an oak tree, huddled together against the night. 

Paramedics are crouched over a body. 

It’s lying across the worn, stone steps of the church, an overgrown puppet whose strings have been severed. An oxygen mask is slapped over a slack face and elastic ties tangle in hair grown too long. A second figure sits nearby, slumped to one side with blood stained jeans up drawn towards its chest as though in a last, futile attempt at protection. Unblinking eyes stare at a sign that reads, ‘Jesus Saves’. Or would, if only half of the letters weren’t missing.

Words echo faintly in puffs of white air. 

“Pulse steady.”

“Pupils equal and reactive.”

“Sir, can you tell me your name?” one of the paramedics asks, rubbing knuckles hard against the front of a worn, faded jacket. 

There’s a muffled groan, and an arm waves unsteadily, trying to push away the mask. “Arrrgghh, stop! It’s S’m.”

“Okay, Sam. Can you tell me where you are?”

“Hurts.” 

“Where does it hurt? Sam? I need you tell me where it hurts.”

“Head.”

“Alright. Does it hurt anywhere else?”

“Nggghh.”

Dean stands still and silent on the lawn, watching from a distance, unsure what to do. He pulls a creased packet of cigarettes from the back pocket of his jeans, only to curse and screw it into a ball when he finds that it’s empty. His hands are shaking. The world moves around him, or perhaps he’s falling through it, pieces flying apart in confusion and growing panic. 

They need to go, before people start asking questions he can’t answer. They need to go now. He doesn’t know where the car is, but Sam will. Sam needs to get up, so they can leave and find the car. Dad’ll be so fucking angry if Dean’s lost it, there’s no way he won’t notice. He wants a cigarette, and Sam’s probably hidden them on purpose, just to screw with him, the fucker. Maybe he’s hidden them in the table. No, not the table, the car. Maybe Sam’s hidden the cigarettes in the car, so Dean can’t find them. Sam has to get up, so they can go and find the fucking car…

“Sir, I’m Officer McCullough. I need to ask you a few questions,” a voice says.

Dean blinks, startled, and turns around to see a woman standing a few feet away. She’s older than he is, maybe forty-five, blue uniform stretched tight over a short, sturdy body. He thinks she could be kind, in a blunt, no nonsense sort of way, given the right circumstances, but there’s only cold suspicion in the eyes that catch his and refuse to let go.

“My b-brother. I want, he - what’s…” Dean says, words stumbling over each other. 

She jerks her head in the direction of the church. “One of those men is your brother?” 

He takes a deep breath and scrubs a hand over his face, trying to calm himself. “Uh, yeah. The one they’re –“ going to make sure is okay, get done what Dean couldn’t. He needs a cigarette.

“Your name?”

Dean doesn’t know what the right answer is, can’t remember who he and Sam are supposed to be. Names slide through his mind, one after the other, flickering briefly only to disappear into blackness. Dean straightens his shoulders and forces a smile, the one he uses to score a free cup of coffee when the money’s running low. “You know, it’s the w-weirdest thing. Having a little d-difficulty remembering right now. Must be the shock.”

“You don’t remember,” she repeats, flatly. “And what about your brother?”

Dean pretends to think for moment. “Nope, guess not.”

“Well, let’s just see if it comes back to you. How about you take me through what happened while we’re waiting.”

“Nothing much to t-tell,” Dean says. “We were driving through, decided to stop and stretch our legs a bit. My brother’s got a thing about“ - _crocodiles, crosses, Blue Earth, Pastor Jim, cherries_ \- “churches, ever since he was a kid. C-can’t get enough of ‘em.”

“And?” she prompts. 

He shrugs, a sharp movement of one shoulder, and doesn’t answer. There’s safety in silence. 

“You must have walked a fair distance,” she says. “Not really the weather for it, especially at night. Where’s your car?”

And isn’t that the sixty-four thousand dollar question. 

“Listen, I n-need to go check on –“ and Christ, what’s he doing, dancing with this cop when Sam needs him. They should have been out of here the second things went bad. He’s so fucking dumb. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

“We’ve got a nice little community here,” McCullough says, taking a firm step towards him. Deep, vertical lines bracket her mouth and for the first time Dean sees what he’d missed before: her fear and anger. “Good, honest folk, for the most part. Not much trouble beyond a bit of petty vandalism and the local drunk beating his wife when he gets home from the bar on a Saturday night.” He can feel her contempt. “So, I’m sure you understand why I’m finding the situation here real upsetting.”

She leans further towards him and lowers her voice. 

“I’m going to be honest with you. Here’s what I think: I think you and your brother are neck deep in this shit. I think that if I take you back to the station and run your prints it’ll tell me all kinds of interesting things; show me all the dark, nasty, little secrets you to like pretend don’t exist when you’re flirting with some pretty girl. C’mon, don’t be shy now. Tell me, you think that’s likely?”

Sam had a pretty girl once, with blonde hair like Mom, but…

”They burnt alive on the ceiling,” Dean says, and then wishes he hadn’t.

“Daniels!” McCullough yells for her partner, moving backwards and drawing her gun. 

Time slows down after that, crawling towards him in fits and starts as if on shattered limbs. There are voices screaming at him to get down on the ground and for a second Dean’s tempted to shut them up. He could do it. Eliminate the threat, grab Sam, and get the hell out of here. And maybe - even if it didn’t work, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, as endings go: hard and bloody. 

Only, if he’s gone, who will take care of Sam?

Something crashes into Dean’s back, knocking the air from his lungs and pinning him in place against the cold, wet ground. Confusion and panic, Dean thinks, as his arms are jerked back and cold metal locks around his wrists, are fucking contagious.


End file.
